


Day Seventeen - Dance

by Ryolite



Series: Rhyol1te's Writuary 2020 [17]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Don't copy to another site, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-04-25 11:47:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22300873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryolite/pseuds/Ryolite
Summary: Grantaire attempts to teach Enjolras how to waltz. Disaster ensues.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Series: Rhyol1te's Writuary 2020 [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1590367
Kudos: 29
Collections: Writuary 2020





	Day Seventeen - Dance

“C’mon,” Grantaire says, three hours into his essay and one since his last break. “Wanna learn how to dance?”

Enjolras blinks from where he’s sprawled across their couch like some kind of unholy and boneless snake, papers spread around him and a pen behind on ear and another in his hand. On the arm of the couch, near his head, are two mugs of tea, both half-empty. Grantaire knows that one of them was made not quite two hours ago, and the other was made not quite twenty minutes ago. He also knows that Enjolras fully intended to finish both, but will probably not do so before he gets up to make himself another mug.

“I guess?” Enjolras says. He takes a look at the paper he’s revising. “Yeah, sure.”

“Great!” Grantaire says, shutting his laptop, and shoving his chair back from the table. “Do you know where the speaker is?”

Enjolras looks around. “No. Your phone should work, though."

“Mmkay,” Grantaire says, unwilling to be dissuaded from his idea. He queues up a few songs, and says, “Help me move the coffee table I want to have enough room.”

Enjolras looks doubtfully at the teetering stacks of books and pens and paper on the coffee table, but helps him move it. The balanced books and papers sway precariously as they shove the coffee table against the wall, but luckily they don’t fall.

“Disaster averted,” Grantaire says, and then stands near the center of the rug. “Okay, I learned how to waltz once, and I think I’ve forgotten some of it, but anyway, you put one hand on my shoulder, and hold my other like this -”

Enjolras is stiff as they get into position.

Grantaire remembers that he should probably show Enjolras the steps to the dance first, so he breaks away.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras says.

“Showing you the steps. I forgot.”

“Oh. What are they, then?”

“You move your feet kind of in a box like this,” Grantaire says, “and have them go like this: forward, side, together, back, side together, forward, side, together -” he demonstrates. The rhythm comes back to him surprisingly easily.

Enjolras bites his lip, and stiffly copies Granatire’s steps. Grantaire tries not to laugh - he would have thought that Enjolras would be some soft of natural dancer, what with his charisma and all, but the reality - that he is barely competent - is infinitely more amusing. 

“Shouldn’t there be music?” Enjolras asks.

“Uh, yeah,” Grantaire says, and hits  _ play _ . The old and crappy speakers of his phone begin to blare some kind of music that has a vaguely nineteenth-century feel.

“I just mirror what you’re doing with your feet,” Grantaire says, holding up one hand for Enjolras to put his in and settling the other on Enjolras’s lower back.

Enjolras nods. His face has the same kind of absolute focus now as it does when he’s giving a speech, or trying to formulate an argument or attempting to boil water.

They start off out of synch, and gradually fall into time together. Grantaire makes sure that he’s moving slowly, because he would rather not fall over or have his feet stomped on.

“This isn’t bad,” Enjolras says. “It looks more complicated.”

“Well you can do fancier stuff,” Grantaire says. “Like this.”

He raises one hand, lets go of Enjorlas’s hand with the other, and attempts to lead Enjolras into an easy spin. He probably should have given an explanation beforehand, though, because instead of loosely holding Grantaire’s fingers to let himself spin, Enjolras  _ tightly _ grabs Grantaire’s fingers, and spins.

Grantaire’s arm twists, and Enjolras’s does as well. To avoid a dislocated arm, Grantaire dives into the sofa.

(He’ll say that to Joly and Bossuet later. In the moment, it was more of a reflex than any calculated protection of his shoulder.)

He lands on the sofa, and for a minute is glad that he hit the sofa.

Then he remembers the two half-empty mugs of tea.

“ _ Shit _ ,” he hears Enjolras say as he watched the mugs tip over, oh so gently, as if in slow motion.

The tea isn’t hot: the younger of the two mugs is about twenty-five minutes old, but it’s lukewarm, and damp, and, more importantly, soaking Enjolras’s papers.

Grantaire springs up like he’s a cat with tea on him instead of a human with tea on him, and scrambled for the papers. Enjolras is doing the same.

“You have them saved, right?” Grantaire asks, gently holding a few sheets up, trying to get them to unstick from each other.

“Not my edits,” Enjolras says, “but everything else, yeah.”

Granaire winces. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s my fault,” Enjorlas says. “I flung you into the couch,  _ and _ left my tea and papers near each other.”

“I shall absolve myself - and you - of the blame if you let me hang all of your papers on a clothesline in our kitchen to dry,” Grantaire says.

“That could work,” Enjolras says excitedly. “I mean, at the very least it’ll get them to be readable!”

Grantaire grins. “Good. I think we have some extra cord that we could use under the sink. I’ll go get it.”

The next day, when the papers have been dried and are no longer adorning their kitchen like bleached leaves ( _ of books, _ Grantaire’d said.  _ No, _ Enjolras had said, proceeding to laugh over the pun for five minutes) Grantaire finishes teaching Enjolras to dance.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos make me super happy! <3


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